


Newborn

by 221b_hound



Category: Frankenstein - Nick Dear, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Screw you Victor Frankenstein you asshat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-17
Updated: 2012-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-07 23:15:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/436506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this prompt on the Sherlock meme: </p><p>John Watson is a man driven by medicine all his life and in the wake of his beloved wife passing due to an incurable disease, John set on a desperate quest to being her back to life. He stole the secret of resurrection from death herself and decided to practice on another corpse first. Luckily he knows the town mortician and had little trouble 'borrowing' a fresh corpse who was blown up in some freak explosion just recently. Please no beautiful sparkling zombie Sherlock who looks fresh as a daisy. This anon wants Sherlock to be as grotesque as Creature and John nurturing Sherlock instead of abandoning him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Newborn

It wasn't in distress, as far as Dr Watson could see, this newborn creature. Slipped into the world like all new things, and shaking like all the world's earthquakes were visited on its heart and nervous system. There were spasms, but it seemed not to be in pain. If harm seemed likely, the doctor would certainly intervene, but this, now, this was every newborn's shock in meeting the world.

(He tried not to think of the newborn sons and daughters that he and Elizabeth would never have; that he would never see the tenderness of Elizabeth as a mother; never see their children looking at the world through her bright, intelligent, kind eyes; so kind. Their children, her children, would have been such a gift, such a precious joy.)

It shivered, this creature. Shook. Twitched. Cried out. Moved. Bending its long limbs, kicking them, twisting them. Discovering them. Once, a jarring crash of elbow to floor, and the doctor took a step towards it, but no, no harm done. The cry was of frustration, not pain. Determination, not distress.

Oh, and then it moved. Hands, strong arms, to the floor, and it dragged itself forward, shimmying forward, so fast, and the look on its face, that radiance!

The doctor had seen infants, rolling to their bellies, reaching for the out-of-reach beloved rag doll, scooting forward, little eyes bright, little bud mouths burbling delight as they pushed themselves through the world, of their own volition, for the first time. Little ones who didn’t know words, yet, but their brains and their hearts knew joy. And here was this strange, misshapen, stitched together rag doll of a thing, its brain and heart as bright and buoyant as an infant.

_Discover your legs, go on, you can do it. You have feet, too, you brave creature._

But it had not yet finished exploring arms and hands and racing across its little world on its belly. _Was that a laugh?_ A gurgling noise.  A child’s burble, but in a deeper voice. It should have been strange, and it was, but beautiful.

_My sons and daughters would have been beautiful. Oh, look at you, just look._

And now it was learning its legs, bending them, twisting. It understood that it needed more than to crawl like a lesser beast. It knew that something more was possible. It fell, and again, and its brow was knotted under the ugly swathe of stitches.

(The doctor wished that finer work had been possible, but the skin had lost suppleness at that point, and it was more important for the thing to be whole than to be pleasing to the eye. But still, this newborn thing was beautiful, though poorly made.)

It fell a fourth time, legs bent at such odd angles, surely that would hurt, and the Doctor began to move, but at the fifth attempt, there it was, there he was, on his unsteady feet, body jutting out at funny angles, keeping his balance, and his unschooled voice grunted and groaned in obvious satisfaction. He was comical and glorious.

His step was awkward and heavy, each one planted with a firm stamp on the earth, as if to say _I am here! This is my body! This is my place!_ And soon, with his ungainly, lumbering, almost-falling, almost-flying gait, he ran, oh he ran! Arms in the air, his throat singing out a noteless cry of wonder and joy.

(The doctor missed his wife’s voice, of all the many, many things he missed about her. Her wise eyes, the way she smiled as though they were sharing secrets, they used to laugh so much, and her nimble, capable, delicate hands, all those things he missed, but her voice, the way she laughed, how she spoke with him about science and art and love and even the mundanities of running a household. She could turn a conversation on the household budget into a sonnet with her voice. He would listen to her talk to the servants, listen to her sing, and be content that she was nearby, and he missed her voice so much, the absence of it was like a blow.)

His newborn ran, dizzy joyful circles, little squeaks and squeals of excitement punctuating the deeper roar of the joy of air in his lungs, firm ground under his feet, and Doctor Watson thought the squeak and roar of him wonderful.

But then he staggered, his boy, and fell, this new body stumbling with unfamiliarity and exhaustion, and his boy gave a sharp cry. But then he lay on his back and seemed to laugh, and he panted, eyes closed, tongue flicking in and out, catching droplets of perspiration.

 _He must be thirsty. He needs sustenance. He needs care. Time, now, time to meet my boy_.

Doctor Watson stepped from the shadows onto the floor. One step. Two. The tap of his booted feet on wood made his newborn freeze and turn. There was no fear in those bright eyes.

_How would he know or understand fear, yet? He’s only ten minutes old and everything he has learned – so much in so short a time – is that his body is a miracle and that running because you can is a unparalleled joy._

Slowly, hand held out, palm up, in friendship, in supplication, Doctor Watson approached his patchwork creation.

“Hello,” he said.

His boy sat up, eventually, still finding co-ordination a challenge, but learning still, learning fast, and his mouth worked.

“Hello,” said Doctor Watson again, “Don’t be alarmed.”

The newborn, seeing the doctor’s outstretched arm, cocked his head to one side, considering the meaning of it. Then he stretched out his own arm, palm up, right hand to meet the doctor’s left. The doctor placed his own hand on that offered, and the boy jumped, shocked, staring wide-eyed at the hand, at the man. His mouth stretched and a guttural laugh emerged. He reached again for the doctor’s hand, stroked the palm, grinned. Leaned forward. Sniffed the hand. Nuzzled it.

“Hello,” said the doctor again, smiling, “You’re a curious lad, aren’t you?”

The curious lad took the doctor’s hand and lipped the fingers. Stared at the doctor’s hand, stared at his own, lipped his own fingers as a comparison. He laid his own hand against his own scarred cheek, his smallest finger crooked between his lips.

He took the doctor’s hand again, laid it against his other cheek. Pressed his face into it. Sighed.

“You are a brave, lad. So clever already.” The doctor rubbed his thumb across the prominent cheekbone. His lad jumped, startled, turned to regard the thumb with the greatest curiosity. Mouthed it, bit on it experimentally.

“Gently, there’s a lad.” The doctor extracted the thumb and stroked that remarkable cheek again. His lad leaned into the touch again.

“My name,” said Doctor Watson, “Is John.”

His lad regarded him with huge, pale eyes, watching the doctor’s mouth intently.

“My name is John.”

“O-oon.”

“John.”

“On.”

“John.”

“Zh-zh-on.”

“Yes, that’s right. That’s good. Good lad.”

“Zhon. Goo’. Goo-D! Zhon.”

John smiled, his eyes bright, but he would not cry, not for joy or for any reason, because he wanted nothing to obscure his view of this beautiful new life.

“John, yes. Good lad. And you…” His hand stroked his lad’s cheek again, and he lifted his palm to cup the hideously scarred head, his thumb smoothing the skin beside the stitches. His darling patchwork boy.

“Your name is Adam.”

“Daaaaa. M.”

“Adam.”

“Aaaaaa. D! M!”

“Adam, there’s a lad.”

“AaaaDAM!”

“Yes. Adam. My lad. My own dear boy.”

And John kissed Adam’s brow. And Adam closed his eyes and made a contented sound.

“J-j-john,” he stuttered and sighed.

“Yes, Adam,” said John, resting his forehead against his boy’s, “I’m here. I’m right here.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fill is inspired hugely by my own very emotional response to BC's extraordinary physicality throughout the play, but especially in that opening where there is no dialogue for ten minutes: just a newborn thing discovering itself. It doesn't cover everything from the prompt, but I loved writing it.
> 
> I'm also linking to some [ beautiful fanart of BC as the Creature.](http://ivemissedsomething.tumblr.com/post/24886998268/im-having-frankenstein-emotions-its-not-as)
> 
> And someone has put [some GIFs on Tumblr of his performance.](http://sherlockshiverandshake.tumblr.com/post/24861680363)


End file.
